


Circumstantial Evidence

by feelin_the_aster



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Blood, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Minor Injuries, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Multiple, POV Racetrack Higgins, POV Spot Conlon, Who's to Say, if there's anything you think that I should tag, let me know in the comments!!!, might turn into major injuries??, tw seizures
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2019-03-05 10:14:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13385688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feelin_the_aster/pseuds/feelin_the_aster
Summary: Racetrack Higgins is walking along, minding his own business on a cold night in Manhattan when he finds the King of Brooklyn farther away from his throne than he belongs, in much worse condition than he expected.





	1. A Fortunate Accident

Spot’s vision cleared just enough to see the shape of Racetrack Higgins hovering above him. His ribs and his left leg were still screaming and all he wanted to do was hide somewhere safe until he was better enough to find the mugs who did this to him and kill them. That or until he was better enough to at least stand up. And now that his vision was clearing, his ears were starting to stop ringing and he could hear sounds that seemed to be coming from Racetrack.

“Spot! Hey, are ya with me?” Racetrack’s voice was creeping in. “Come on, say somethin’.” Race’s voice, now that it was clearer, was also a lot closer than Spot had realized.

“Stop shakin’ me, Racetrack. What the hell are you doin’ in Brooklyn?” Spot said, or at least he was pretty sure he said. His ears were still ringing and it was cold enough on the riverfront to freeze someone who was wearing an actual coat and hadn’t just been soaked into next week. Spot was starting shake and he knew once he stopped, hypothermia would probably set in. He’d seen it happen too many times. As blurry as his vision still was, he could make out a strange look passing over Racetrack’s face.

“You’re welcome,” Race responded, bitter, as though he took Spot’s cantankerous nature very personally. His bitterness didn’t seem to last long though, as he was heaving Spot up and pulling his arm over his shoulder, half carrying him out of the alley.

“W-wait, where’re you takin’ me?” Spot murmured. He was trying to make himself louder but he just couldn’t manage it.

“To the boarding house, where else?”

Spot could feel himself tense, then stop walking. He couldn’t go to the boarding house, not like this. He couldn’t let anyone see him like this, defenseless, beaten to a pulp. He had an image to maintain, an image that if he let start to crack, would be shattered and he would no longer be the most feared and respected Newsie in Brooklyn, Manhattan, Queens, the Bronx, Harlem, Staten Island, and probably everywhere else.

“N-no, you can’t t-take me to the boarding house-” he began, trying to untangle himself from Racetrack who was bewildered enough to let him go, which was a mistake, and left Spot stumbling and almost falling back over, stopped only by the wall next to him and Racetrack’s recovering arms.

Race tried to pull him along. “It’s fine, I’ll sneak you into the basement, only person who ever goes down there is Jack and you know he won’t say nothin’ to nobody-”

“What?! What’s Kelly doin’ in the boarding house?!” Spot spun completely out of Race’s grip, supporting himself by leaning on the wall. Race’s hands took his shoulders but he shrugged them off with more force than he meant, causing his ribs considerable discomfort in the process. Again, Race had a strange look on his face, but this was more confused concern, and almost hurt, than bitterness.

“Spot,” Racetrack said, clearly and slowly, “Where do you think you are?”

 

…

 

It wasn’t particularly cold out, but for Racetrack Higgins and any other unfortunate soul who couldn’t afford an actual coat, it was getting pretty intolerable. So when he saw some poor bastard lying in the alley, probably the city’s latest mugging victim, face-down in the snow, the least he could do is see if the guy was alive and then maybe drag him to synagogue down the street (they usually kept their doors open on cold nights for the specific purpose of keeping people as people instead of popsicles). When he got closer, he almost didn’t believe his eyes.

“Holy shit,” he breathed to himself.

He turned Spot Conlon’s unconscious body toward him, swearing again upon seeing the damage up close. Spot was bleeding from his face, bruises forming even after having been iced in a snowbank. Race looked down to see more blood in the snow, finding its source in Spot’s ribs and his leg. Spot groaned, his eyes flickering open, unfocused and glassy.

“Spot? It’s me, Racetrack.” No, answer. Race shook his shoulder, gently. “Spot! Hey, are ya with me? Come on, say somethin’.”

Spot, finally seeming to hear him, tried to sit up, shifting away. “Stop shakin’ me, Racetrack.” Spot’s speech was slurred and raspy. The slurring could be from a head injury or from hypothermia, Race wasn’t sure, and he definitely didn’t know which was worse. “What the hell are you doin’ in Brooklyn?” the shaking Newsie demanded.

Racetrack paused for a second, but shook it off, pulling Spot up as gently as he could, mindful of his possibly broken ribs. “You’re welcome.”

Spot wavered, favoring his right leg completely, so Race pulled Spot’s arm over his shoulder, supporting what he could of Spot’s weight. Race noted how lucky he was that the bleeding newsie he stumbled upon was the only one who was around as short as he was.

“W-wait, where’re you takin’ me,” Spot asked, his voice quiet, and distant.

“To the boarding house, where else?”

Race must have said something wrong because Spot stopped cold, panic setting into his shoulders and his eyes.

“N-no, you can’t t-take me to the boarding house-” Spot rambled, squirming away from Racetrack like he was a policeman taking Spot to the refuge. Racetrack couldn’t help but feel a twinge of hurt at how much Spot apparently didn’t trust him. Spot began to fall the second Racetrack lost his grip, though he regained it in time to stop Spot from face-planting on to the icy sidewalk.

“It’s fine, I’ll sneak you into the basement, only person who ever goes down there is Jack and you know he won’t say nothin’ to nobody-”

Spot wrenched himself free of Racetrack’s grip. “What?! What’s Kelly doin’ in the boarding house?!”

Racetrack tried to keep Spot’s swaying frame upright, grabbing his shoulders, only to have his hands shrugged off with enough violence to almost knock him over, not something he expected from a newsie who could barely keep himself standing even with the support of a brick wall behind him. But what really concerned him was that Spot didn’t seem to know he was in Manhattan.

“Spot,” Racetrack said, clearly and slowly, “Where do you think you are?”

Racetrack didn’t get an answer as Spot’s eyes became even more distant and, to Racetrack’s horror, rolled back as he became nothing but dead weight, falling before Race could stop him, seizing and shaking.

“Somebody help!” Race screamed...


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened earlier that night...

EARLIER THAT DAY

 

Every once in a while, Spot would disappear (usually when the ever present weight of Brooklyn on his shoulders became briefly debilitating). When that happened, he would give instructions to his seconds and then vanish without explanation, and no one dared to question it. He would wander, making his way invisibly through the streets that he knew better than anyone, finding his way to his secret refuge underneath the docks.

There was bad blood running between the boroughs and that was weighing on him. Queens was pushing to expand its turf, Manhattan was staying deafeningly neutral, and the Bronx was tentatively siding with Queens. That left Brooklyn (Spot) standing alone. Before the strike, no one dared to stand against Brooklyn or Spot Conlon. Spot was feared, not only because of his ruthlessness, but because of his cleverness. He had a way of making sure what he wanted got done. After the strike, however, Queens started to challenge that ruthlessness. Spot knew that an all out war between the boroughs would only end badly for everyone so he was trying his best to avoid it. But then a couple of his boys wandered into the Bronx where a couple boys from Queens were waiting to show them that Brooklyn was not the only borough not to be trifled with. Because it happened in the Bronx, and that was outside Spot’s territory, there was very little he could do without risking the Bronx fully siding with Queens, and because his boys were technically trespassing, it put them in the wrong and the boys from Queens in the right.

When Spot didn’t order retaliation on Queens, some of the older Brooklyn boys got angry. There was word buzzing around of a coup and Spot knew there was only a matter of time before it happened. He had to be ready for it when it did.

Spot was good in a fight, hell there wasn’t much he wasn’t capable of. The legends surrounding him (true or not) proved this. Everyone was terrified of Spot Conlon. He even made the famous Jack Kelly nervous. But there would always be a couple stupid kids who wanted power and would do stupid things to get it. Spot wasn’t too concerned, he knew that there were more people loyal to him than not. After all, there wasn’t a single Brooklyn newsie he hadn’t single handedly saved at some point or another and Spot dealt in favors. If one of his boys was going hungry, he made sure they had enough to get back on their feet. If one of his boys were sick, they’d have medicine. If one of his boys was about to be picked up by the bulls, Spot was there with reinforcements, slingshots at the ready. People knew it was much wiser to be on his good side than be on his bad side. Spot took care of what was his, and Brooklyn was his. The only thing he ever asked for in return was loyalty.

 

Spot didn’t mean to wander into Manhattan that night, but when he made his way onto the Brooklyn Bridge, one of the only places he ever felt completely safe, he noticed someone following him. 

After the initial panic of realizing the precarious situation he was in, being alone on a bridge in the dead of night, he knew he had to keep walking forward. Turning back towards Brooklyn would only lead him directly into the arms of those following him and if he could make it into Manhattan, there was a chance he could get close enough to the boarding house that a friendly newsie might stumble upon him before something too serious happened.

Again, Spot was good in a fight but from the corner of his eye as he glanced back, he saw what he dreaded: three guys following him, all reasonably bigger than him. As he came off the bridge, he ducked into the closest ally he could find and started walking as quickly as he could without making it obvious he was spooked. If he started running, they would start running, and by the looks of it, they were taller than he was and at least one of them was probably faster. Spot was quick, but he was short and could only move his half numb legs so fast. He kicked himself mentally for going on a bridge when it this cold out.

Spot’s breath quickened as his pace did, only slowing to discreetly check if his tails were still there. When he didn’t see them, he steeled himself for what was coming. As he turned around, four guys stepped out of the shadows.

_ Where did the fourth guy come from?  _ Spot wondered passively as he set his jaw and stood as straight as he could without making it obvious he was trying to seem bigger.

“Can I do somethin’ for you?” he asked, playing at diplomacy.

The shortest out of the four stepped forward. “We was havin’ a little trouble gettin’ an audience with the great Spot Conlon,” the short one spat, accentuating each word venomously, two of the taller guys moving behind Spot, closing off any escape route he had.

“We ain’t been too happy of late, what with bad business goin’ around, and, uh, Brooklyn ain’t been very generous regardin’ the position we’re in..”

Spot knew this was only going to end with him getting soaked. There was no point in false diplomacy any more. “Wow, I didn’t know you guys in Queens knew any three syllable words. I’m almost impressed-”

Spot was cut off by a sharp punch to the stomach. He doubled over, gasping for breath, the only thing keeping him standing being the guys behind him holding him still.

“That all you got? Man, I knew you Queens boys was havin’ it rough, but not rough enough that you started hittin’ like my great grandmother-” he was cut off again by a rough hand clamped firmly over his mouth.

The short one stood back as the tall ones took a better hold and the fourth cracked his knuckles menacingly. “And don’t even think about cryin’ for help,” he said, taking a handkerchief from his pocket.

Spot almost laughed. He wouldn’t cry for help, it was too big a risk for his reputation to get soaked, let alone cry for help. And even if he did, there was no one who would listen.

The hand over his mouth let up just enough to shove the putrid smelling handkerchief far into his mouth, and then the hand returned, followed by another piece of cloth wrapped around his mouth and the back of his head to keep the handkerchief inside.

“We’s gonna give you a soakin’ you won’t forget….”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spot, to me, is kind of like if Michael Corleone was a newsie.
> 
> Thoughts? Suggestions? 
> 
> Again, not beta read on account of I live under a mask of relative anonymity and that's how it's gonna stay


	3. Look Me in the Eyes

PRESENT

 

Jack was minding his own business, sitting in the basement of the boarding house, when he heard a tapping at the window. He looked around, not sure what he was expecting to see, but surprised nonetheless to see Racetrack gesturing at him urgently. Sighing, assuming this was just Racetrack being melodramatic about a bet he’d lost, Jack took his time grabbing his jacket, walking up the stairs to the door, unlocking it, and opening it, to be grabbed by the wrist and wrenched into the cold.

“Race, what the hell-” he began, but was stopped by Racetrack dragging him down he street.

“No time, Jack, come on!” Race forced out, his tone alarming Jack who had never heard Racetrack be serious about much of anything.

“Where’re you takin’ me?” Jack asked, just as they came to a stop in front of a violently shaking body

“He won’t stop shaking, what do I do?!” Race track cried, already on his knees trying to hold the seizing boy.

Jack knelt down beside them, handing Race his jacket. “Here, put this under his head so he doesn’t hit anything-” Jack stopped upon realizing who the seizing boy was for a split second, but snapped back into action.

Race did as he was told, his hands shaking. “I think he’s having trouble breathing!”

“Help me turn him on his side,” Jack said, his voice grounding Race. They turned Spot onto his side as gently as possible, their efforts made difficult by the shaking.

After thirty seconds, or what to Racetrack felt like hours, the shaking subsided and ceased, replaced by a fit of coughing. The coughs sounded like music to Race’s ears. You had to be alive to cough as far as he knew.

“Spot, can you hear me? It’s Racetrack,” he said, trying to sound as upbeat and natural as possible, a talent only Racetrack possessed. 

Spot struggled to sit up, aided by Racetrack and Jack.

“Hey, take it easy, Spot,” Jack said calmly like he was talking to a feral animal.

Spot’s eyes opened blearily. “Kelly?”

Racetrack wasn’t sure why, but his heart sank a little at hearing Spot acknowledge Jack first.  _ This is not the time or place you weirdo _ Race admonished himself.

“Can you stand?” Jack asked.

Spot didn’t seem to hear him when his eyes found Racetrack. “Race,” he said, his words slurred even more than before, “are you okay? Did they hurt you?”

Racetrack couldn’t deny his elation at Spot’s unfounded concern. He and Spot had a strange relationship. Most of it was made up of sarcastic quips and false disdain, but every once in a while, Spot would become almost territorial of Racetrack, like he had to protect him. Racetrack would find that annoying if it were anyone else, but with Spot, he found it almost exciting.  _ NOT THE TIME OR PLACE _ . “What? No, I’m fine, we need to get you out of the cold, can you stand?”

Spot, to Jack and Race’s horror, shook his head, not even pretending to be able to take care of himself for the sake of his pride. Jack looked to Race, acknowledging that Race should take point on this. Again, Race was pleased.

“Okay, Spot, we’re gonna lift you, okay?” Race said, trying to be as nonchalant as possible but still speaking clearly enough that Spot would know what was happening.

“Okay,” Spot breathed, his voice barely loud enough to hear even in the dead of night.”

Race bit his lip, aware of the extensive damage to Spot’s person, and debated whether or not to give him warning. “On three we’re gonna lift you, okay? It’s gonna hurt, but we gotta get you out of the cold.” 

Spot nodded minutely. Racetrack nodded to Jack who responded likewise.

On three, they lifted Spot’s broken body up between them and began the trek to the boarding house. Spot barely groaned, the fog of his mind shutting out the pain.

When they finally got to the boarding house, Jack began motions toward the stairs leading into the loft room, but Racetrack intervened. “No, we gotta take him downstairs,” he said, leaving very little room to argue. Spot was barely conscious and that left it to Race to protect his privacy.

“It’s too dusty down there-” Jack began (he didn’t need much room to argue).

“He don’t want anyone seein’ him like this.”

“Oh come on, none of us is a threat to him-”

Race ignored Jack. “That doesn’t matter, he don’t want people seein’ him. It’s clean enough downstairs, come on.” As silly as Racetrack thought it was to be so prideful, he understood why it was important for Spot to seem invulnerable to the people he lead, and if the Manhattan newsies saw him be vulnerable, word would get around no matter how hushed they tried to keep it.

After a dangerous, haphazard trip down the stairs into the basement, Jack steered them towards a cot where they laid Spot down carefully. Jack left to get clean water and Racetrack stayed by Spot’s side, carefully peeling away his blood and snow dampened shirt.

Race inhaled sharply seeing the damage. Spot’s small frame was littered with bruises and abrasions. It would take weeks for him to heal.  _ If he heals at all... _ Race thought of Crutchie who was able to pull his own weight even with a bad leg, but then he thought of how he had help to get to that point. Who would help Spot Conlon? Would he even accept help? He was Brooklyn through and through, and Brooklyn wasn’t kind to its fallen leaders. There would be a place for Spot in Manhattan, they hadn’t forgotten how he had helped with the strike, but Spot would sooner jump off the Brooklyn bridge than depend on Manhattan or anyone for that matter. 

Spot stirred slightly, breaking Racetrack away from his thoughts. After the injured boy settled himself fitfully, Race continued his inspection. His eyes wandered from the tapestry of bruises and cuts to strange marks on Spot’s shoulders, trailing to his back. They looked like scars, but from what, Race couldn’t tell. There was a scar on his neck Race had never noticed before. He was usually to busy avoiding eye contact when they interacted. He didn’t like looking Spot in the eyes. There was something in his eyes that Race didn’t like. It was like the real Spot was hiding behind his eyes and resented Racetrack for not being able to free him. It was unsettling and fascinating and Race wanted to know more but he was too scared to ask. He considered Spot a friend, sure, but even Jack, who knew Spot before he was the king of the Brooklyn newsies, still had to ask permission before he passed through Spot’s territory. While Race was staring at Spot’s neck, he didn’t notice Spot staring back.

Race almost jumped clear out of his skin when his eyes passed to Spot’s and found them open and alert. He took a second to catch his breath. “Holy shit, Conlon, how long’ve you been starin’ at me?”

“What happened?” Spot asked, his voice quiet, but commanding.

Racetrack kept his voice low. “I found you crumpled up in some alley and brought you to the lodging house.”

Spot began to speak but Race held up his hand and was almost surprised when Spot backed down. 

“You had some sort of epileptic fit, you kept shaking and shaking and wouldn’t stop so I ran to get Jack and we brought you down to the basement,” Race said, ignoring the angry glint in Spot’s eyes. “Don’t worry, no one saw you.”

Spot visibly relaxed. Race didn’t notice how tense he had become until he seemed to melt into the cot. Spot drew in a shuddering breath, his ribs protesting the movement.

“Well, Doctor Higgins, how do I look?” Spot breathed, his eyes closed, a trace of a smile playing across his lips.

Racetrack released the breath he had been holding since Spot regained consciousness and couldn’t resist laughing, his relief at Spot’s joke tangible. Spot Conlon, the eternal enigma, one minute looking like he would drown your entire family, the next like you’re an old acquaintance who he never really fell out of touch with. Racetrack tried to tell himself that it was nothing personal, Spot joked around with Jack and the other newsies all the time. But Race couldn’t help but think about how beautiful it was when Spot smiled. It wasn’t a full smile, really, just a smirk, but even though it played on his lips relatively often, it still seemed like the first rain in a drought to Race, or like the sun coming out after a week of grey. 

“Well I ain’t gonna lie to you, Mr. Conlon,” Race joked back, “you look like shit.”

Spot grinned and Racetrack felt like the gates of heaven had just opened. 

“That’s a good diagnosis doc, I just so happen to feel like shit.” Spot wasn’t sure if it was the warmth of the room thawing his limbs or if it was his head injury, but he was almost happy. He felt safe. His mind kept almost returning to the alley, his voice silenced and choked by a filthy gag, a feeling that hit way too close to his past for him to process at the moment, but then he felt Racetrack’s presence and he would be pulled back into the present. No one had been able to do that before…

If only he could just stay there, numb to his injuries, listening to Racetrack babble about who knew what, feeling safe, protected. As he fell asleep, Spot made a wish that when he woke up, Racetrack would still be there. He didn’t know what it was that drew him to Racetrack. They were nothing alike and Racetrack didn’t seem to give much thought about Spot Conlon. When they spoke, Race never seemed to look Spot in the eyes, but not because he was timid, more like he didn’t feel he had to, like they were equals.. Spot couldn’t put his finger on it, but he felt like it was a challenge. He wanted Racetrack Higgins to look him in the eyes. If only they could just stay like this, just the two of them. If only Spot’s injuries could fade… 

But as Spot fell asleep, he knew that the worst was yet to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was kind of a rush job, I'm still fleshing out what I want to happen. Spoiler, the worse things that lie ahead are Spot dealing with his emotions sooooooo that's gonna be lots of fun!
> 
> Also to be clear, this is following the 1992 movie plot, especially in terms of casting. Max Casella and Gabriel Damon are 100% the only way I can imagine Racetrack and Spot.


	4. How Do I Look?

Spot couldn’t remember what he had been dreaming but it must have been terrifying because he woke up screaming, trying to sit up despite the terrible pain he was in. Pushing him back down by the shoulders was Racetrack Higgins looking more haggard than Spot had ever seen him or ever wanted to see him.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Racetrack was whispering soothingly. “You’re safe, it’s okay.”

Spot took a moment to catch his breath before he began to relax. “What time is it?”

“It’s night time, but it’s tomorrow night. You’ve been out for a whole day.”

Spot almost got angry that they had let him sleep for a whole day but then he recalled the events of the previous night and knew that’s exactly what he would have done if their positions had been reversed.

“How am I looking?” Spot asked.

Racetrack answered humorously, a callback to their previous exchange. “You’ve looked better, Spot, that’s for sure.” Spot grinned and Racetrack blushed. He was thankful that the lighting in the basement wasn’t good enough for Spot to notice.

“I meant what’s the damage, wise-ass.”

“Oh my apologies, your honor,” Racetrack amended with insincere humility. “Jack and I fixed you up as best we could. It looks like you’ve got some cracked ribs and your knee looks about as big as your head, but that’s the worst of it.”

Spot considered this, his previous smile now vanished, replaced by a look of consternation. “Help me sit up.”

“If you say so,” Racetrack shrugged. If Spot wanted to kill himself, who was Racetrack to stop him?

Racetrack stood over Spot and pulled him up by the shoulders.

Spot regretted the decision to sit up immediately but knew himself to be stubborn enough not to say anything about it. He clenched his teeth as he felt his ribs grinding together and his hips groan. Racetrack placed what served as a pillow behind him to keep him up. It was then that Spot saw Racetrack well enough to see how terrible he looked.

“You look like shit,” Spot said, his thoughts flowing directly to his mouth.

“I thought we established you was the one that looked like shit.”

“I got an excuse, professor,” Spot sneered back.

Racetrack ignored him. “Who did this to ya, anyway?” he asked, not wanting to explain to Spot that he had stayed with him since he found him in that alley, not wanting to explain that he felt like he had a responsibility to make sure Spot was okay, not wanting to admit or draw attention to the fact that he couldn’t stop thinking about every interaction they had ever had since they met.

“Some walkin’ pieces of shit from Queens,” Spot cursed, startling Racetrack out of his thoughts. 

“What’s goin’ on with that anyway?”

Spot scoffed. “Don’t you pay attention to anythin’ besides horse races?”

Racetrack shrugged.

“Queens,” Spot continued, “has been havin’ a rough time since the strike. Selling’s been down, just like everywhere, but instead of takin’ care of it, they’s tryin’ to push their border into Brooklyn. We ain’t been lettin’ ‘em so they soaked a couple of my boys in the Bronx. When that didn’t work, they decided to do somethin’ a little more drastic.”

“What’re you gonna do?”

“Short of burning their fucking lodging house to the ground I don’t know.”

Racetrack assumed he must have looked hilarious because he felt his eyes widen to a width they never had before. He started laughing, imagining how ridiculous his face was. Spot, however, wasn’t laughing.

“Wait, you’re serious?” Racetrack paused to let Spot counter but when Spot remained silent, he continued. “Spot you can’t- you just can’t- you’re not serious are you? Spot, tell me you’re not serious.”

Spot wasn’t surprised that Racetrack didn’t understand the position he was in, but he wished he did. If he let this slide, it would be as good as a written endorsement of Queens pushing their border and it would be a blessing for whoever was stirring for a revolution to take control. He liked Racetrack. He felt like he was on even ground with him. Racetrack was the only person who never seemed afraid of him. But even as clever and witty as Racetrack was, he wasn’t Brooklyn. He didn’t understand and that made Spot’s heart sink, his chest feeling hollow and dark. He didn’t like Race thinking of him as a petty dictator.

Racetrack, still looking Spot in the eyes, longer than he ever had before, saw a glint of anger in them. He knew that Spot was probably used to being unchallenged, but what he was talking about was ridiculous. Then Race could see the wheels in Spot’s head turning like they almost always were. Spot was nothing if not calculating.

“I got three options,” Spot said, calmly, but with violence bleeding into the edges of his words. “Option one, I don’t do nothin’. Queens pushes into Brooklyn, the kids who’ve been talkin’ treason wantin’ to get rid of me so’s they can move up, they get the go ahead and I’m dead before I step off the bridge.

“Option two, I go back to Brooklyn, maybe I get taken out, maybe I don’t. If I don’t, I send kids into Queens to soak every bum they see. Maybe it goes well and they make their mark and come back. In that case, Queens sends some kids into Brooklyn to soak every bum  _ they _ see. And so on and so forth. That’s the best case scenario, an all out war. The worst case is my boys get soaked cause they’re outnumbered, or they get arrested or both. Either way, the kids talkin’ treason get impatient and I’m dead before dawn.

“Option three, I burn their lodging house down and nobody dares to even breathe in Brooklyn without my say so.”

“You can’t burn the Queens lodgin’ house down, that’s nuts.”

“If Kelly would stop bein’ such a prick and back Brooklyn it wouldn’t be an issue. If Manhattan embargoed ‘em, we could set up a meetin’ with Trigger in the Bronx and she could get that fucker in Queens to back off.”

“What the fuck is ‘embargo’?” Racetrack asked. He was still confused as Spot’s face lit up, laughing and wincing at the pain smiling caused his split lip, but laughing all the same.

Spot’s laugh was contagious to Racetrack. Everyone else seemed on edge when Spot laughed, like they didn’t know if he was laughing  _ with _ them or if he was about to  _ do _ something to them, but Racetrack loved it. 

“It means Manhattan don’t let Queens into Manhattan, they don’t talk to ‘em, don’t trade with ‘em, that kind of thing, until we can restore diplomatic relations.”

“And by diplomatic relations you mean make ‘em too scared to cross you again.”

Spot’s eyes turned mischievous and dark (usually a bad sign for everyone). “Somethin’ like that.”

“Hey how come you knows all this shit about diplomats and embargos? D’you go to school or somethin’?” Race said, half teasing, half sincerely curious.

Spot raised his eyebrows in quick succession like it was some sort of secret. “Sometimes I read papers before I sell ‘em.”

Racetrack leaned back, placing his feet on Spot’s makeshift bed. “Who taught you to read?”

“Who taught you to ask stupid questions?” Spot snapped.

“Sorry, your honor, my intent was not to offend,” Racetrack backtracked sarcastically.

Spot regretted everything. He had been more than enjoying his first real conversation with Racetrack despite his uncomfortable circumstances and to now have ruined it with his temper and to have Racetrack revert back to his sarcastic self felt like being soaked all over again.  _ Okay it’s not  _ that _ bad you weirdo _ he reasoned to himself.

“It was some lady,” Spot said, trying to force himself to communicate. He had never wanted to do that before. “She,” he paused, looking at Racetrack and the eyes and glancing down, for once not able to hold eye contact, “worked with my ma I think, I don’t really remember, but she taught me the alphabet and from there I sort of figured out the rest of it.” What Spot didn’t say was that the lady would watch over him when his father was too drunk to stand and his mom didn’t trust his dad not to do something and had to take him to work which involved selling herself at a brothel while Spot was down the hall. He was four years old.

Racetrack understood, looking at the broken body of Spot Conlon, why he was the most feared and respected newsie in New York and probably everywhere else. The kid was smart and he was fucking terrifying. Looking in his eyes Racetrack knew there was nothing Spot Conlon was not capable of.

“I learned to read after I left home. I think I was about twelve before I could make out the headlines myself instead of just listening to the other kids shouting.”

Spot snickered, to himself, picturing a small(er) Racetrack memorizing headlines and butchering them in an attempt to look like he knew what he was selling.

_ There he is, _ Racetrack thought, seeing Spot return to himself, the quiet, scared boy gone, replaced by who he was now: the only person Racetrack could see himself never stop being fascinated by.

“I’m gonna find you something to eat,” Racetrack said, standing up, stretching his body which ached from sitting next to Spot for so long. “Don’t go anywhere.”

Spot watched him walk up the stairs, feeling Racetrack’s absence like a block of ice settling in his stomach.  _ This is not the time or place you weirdo. _


	5. Chapter 5

“Why ain’t we backin’ Brooklyn?” Racetrack asked without any preamble.

Jack hadn’t even noticed Racetrack approaching, absorbed in his task of patching the bottoms of his shoes which were finally worn down to the point where they couldn’t really be considered shoes anymore.

“We ain’t backin’ anybody, Race,” Jack replied, not looking up.

“I didn’t ask if we  _ were _ I asked why we ain’t.”

“Don’t get smart with me Racetrack, you’ll make me lose confidence in myself,” Jack sighed, standing and pushing past the shorter newsie. Racetrack followed, not about to let this slide.

“I ain’t asked you for nothin’ today, Cowboy. All I’s askin’ is why we ain’t backin’ Brooklyn,” Racetrack said, starting to lose the patience he wasn’t exactly famous for.

Jack took Racetrack by the elbow, leading him out to the fire escape, out of the earshot of the other newsies. “What’s Spot been talkin’ to you about?”

Racetrack shrugged out of Jack’s grip, a bit offended by the implication that his mind was so easily swayed. “Look, Jack, you know I ain’t the type to get involved with politics but this seems like an open and shut case.”

“Yeah? Is that what Spot told you?” Jack insisted.

“What, you think he beat the shit outta himself?” Racetrack scoffed.

Jack rubbed his hands over his face wearily, like he was having to explain something very complicated to a young child. “What happened to Spot was a long time comin’.”

Race felt a sharp pang of anger in his gut. “What the hell are you talkin’ about, I thought you and Spot was friends. Friends don’t let friends die in a gutter.”

“How do you think Spot got where he was?” Jack countered hotly. “Kissin’ babies and savin’ kittens outta trees? Brooklyn ain’t exactly known for peaceful exchanges of power.”

“Wait, so _ now  _ you got a problem with the way Spot runs things? You didn’t have a problem when you was beggin’ him to join the strike,” Racetrack snapped back, not trying to mask the bitterness in his tone. He knew Spot was morally ambiguous at best but at least he wasn’t duplicitous.

Jack groaned, his voice rising. “I don’t got a problem with Spot, I got a problem with goin’ toe to toe with Queens and the Bronx because Brooklyn is bein’ run like a damn war zone!”

Before Racetrack could yell back, the window to the fire escape opened and they turned to see Crutchie’s head poking out.

“You guys gotta come quick! Hurry!” he shouted, pulling his head back in from the cold to make room for Jack and Racetrack. Once they were inside, they heard commotion and followed it, not waiting for Crutchie’s explanation.

Once they were down the stairs, they came face to face with a worst case scenario.

Five Queens newsies were standing in the doorway of the lodging house, clubs and knives in hand, and Spot Conlon was slumped in the corner, looking even worse (if that were possible), shielded by Mush and Blink. Racetrack was honestly surprised that Spot was even standing.

“What’s goin’ on here?” Jack shouted, giving no pretense of diplomacy, jumping in between the Queens newsies and his own. “What the hell do you think you’re doin’ comin’ in here like that?”

A newsie who Racetrack recognized as Slip stood forward. Slip was just about as big as Jack, but his arms had the reach of someone five inches taller. He was the last guy you would want to go toe to toe with.

Slip pointed to Spot with his club. “We want him.”

Racetrack looked to Spot who seemed barely awake, but Racetrack knew that Spot was aware enough to know what was going down. He knew that Spot would underplay his strengths and overplay his injuries if that meant getting an upper-hand. Though Spot really didn’t need to overplay his injuries at all. They were severe enough to put a grown man in the hospital for a month.

“For what?” Jack humored him.

“That ain’t your concern. This is between Queens and Brooklyn,” Slip snarled, “and we’re takin’ him.”

“You know,” Jack continued, “if I let you’s walk outta here with my guest with plans on doin’ something unsavory, that would make me a bad host. And the way I’m countin’ it, there’s five of you, and there’s about,” Jack paused for effect, gesturing to the Manhattan newsies now surrounding the scene, “thirty of my boys between down here and upstairs.”

Slip stepped in closer, garnering a reaction from the Manhattan newsies getting ready to defend their leader if necessary.

“You’re makin’ a mistake, Kelly.”

“Nah, Slip,  _ you _ made the mistake,” Jack said, stepping inward, pushing Slip back. “You see, Manhattan wasn’t a part of this, but now you come onto our turf and threaten violence against one of our guests? Now we’re a part of this. So why don’t you run back to Queens and let Scratch know that I hope he’s okay with takin’ on Brooklyn  _ and _ Manhattan if he wants to keep this shit up.”

With nothing left to say, Slip and the four other Queens newsies left, throwing lethal looks as far as they could before the door slammed shut behind them. There was a brief moment of silence before Racetrack broke it.

“Alright, you bums, nothin’ to see here. Back to bed!” he shouted jovially, trying to disperse the crowd as quickly as possible. After a path was cleared he rushed over to where Spot was leaning and pushed through Mush and Blink to get to him. He held Spot as someone grabbed a chair and then eased Spot down into it.

……

Spot couldn’t wait much longer. He didn’t know if it was the darkness of the basement or the cold but thoughts were rushing to his head that he had spent so long pushing away that he didn’t even remember them. But now he didn’t know where he was-  _ you’re in the Manhattan lodging house  _ he was in the basement and he couldn’t move- _ you’re in the the manhattan Lodging house, Racetrack is just upstairs  _ his arms have lost their feeling from being cinched so tightly to his sides  _ no no no no you’re safe _ he can feel himself choking on the thick rag shoved between his teeth, no matter how much he yells, nothing but barely audible moans escaping the fabric  _ it’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real  _ he hears the footsteps coming closer and closer, but he can’t move  _ the past is the past, it can’t hurt you _ \---

Spot couldn’t wait, he threw off his thin blanket and started limping towards the stairs, his knee and ribs screaming for him to stop but he couldn’t. He had to get out of the basement, he had to find someone, anyone. Just seeing anyone would help him push the thoughts away. He reached the stairs and desperately began to climb, tears threatening to flow down his face. He stumbled and fell, crying out as his ribs hit the stairs. He could barely see through the pain when he was suddenly on his feet, arms holding him up and dragging him up the stairs.

“You just don't know how to fuckin’ die do ya,” Spot heard through the ringing in his ears. “Irish piece of shit…”

“Why are we draggin’ ‘im, why don't we just knock ‘im off here?” a higher voice whined.

“Cause then we'd have to explain to Manhattan why’s we killed ‘im. This way they just find ‘im in the mornin’ and wonder who done it-”

Spot was trying to convince his body to yell for help when suddenly there was yelling and he felt himself pulled in different directions and finally stood up against a wall, two kids he made out to be Mush and Blink standing between him and a gang of very angry Queens newsies.

…

“Spot, you with me?”

Spot blinked and nodded, feeling the presence of Racetrack’s hands hover over him gently, checking for injuries. As his eyes focused, he saw Race’s hands trembling and took them into his own.

“If I didn’t know better I’d think you was the one who almost just got killed,” Spot slurred, his crooked, mischievous grin marred by the split in his lip, his calculating eyes surrounded by bruises.

“I’d smack you right now if I didn’t think it’d kill ya,” Racetrack muttered in exasperation, moving a little less gently. 

Spot leaned his head back, closing his eyes and chuckling softly, “Nah, you like me too much.” 

Racetrack felt his heart skip a beat at the accusation. It was entirely true, but that didn’t make it less strange coming from the boy in front of him.

“We’s friends, right?” Spot continued like he was sure of the fact, but was just checking to see if Race had gotten the message.

Racetrack paused a moment. Of course they were friends. Racetrack was friends with everybody. But Spot saying it was new. Spot rarely acknowledged anyone as a ‘friend’ in that specific term. This was new even though Racetrack’s feelings for Spot weren’t. What had started as interest and curiosity was evolving into something strange and uncharted.

“Of course, but right now we gotta get you back to bed,” Race interjected. “You’re about two bruises away from lookin’ like an abused grape.” Spot snickered again, having no consideration for Racetrack’s poor nerve.

“You’s got a lot of gall, Higgins,” Spot said in a way that, if addressed to anyone else in the world, would have meant it as a threat, but addressed to Racetrack was an endearment. Spot didn’t know why he had so much affection for Racetrack, but there he was, half dead, and wanting to joke around with the boy hovering over him, wanting nothing more than to see him to look Spot in the eyes and smile. “I’s gonna have to challenge you to a duel.”

Racetrack rolled his eyes. “You can challenge me to as many duels as ya like, you can barely stand.”

“I resent that.”

Soon, Mush and Racetrack were lifting Spot under the arms and steering him towards the stairs leading up for which Spot was silently grateful. He didn’t want to go back to the basement. 

“I figure since everyone knows now, it don’t hurt none to take you upstairs where more of us can keep an eye on you,” Racetrack said, reassuring Spot when no one else would have known Spot needed it.

After getting Spot settled in the most remote bunk hidden away in an alcove, Racetrack sat next to him, feeling a strange need to personally keep Spot in his sight at all times.

“So now that Manhattan’s backin’ Brooklyn, you think this stupid war’s gonna be over?” Race asked.

Spot looked at him quizzically, the ever turning cogs of his brain working behind his eyes. “When did Manhattan decide to back Brooklyn?”

Racetrack took a cigar out of his pocket and struck a match to light it. “Right about when those bums from Queens was tryin’ to drag you out into an alley to knock you off.”

Spot frowned, his eyebrows furrowing in consternation as he thought. “So all it took was a little homicide to push Kelly into action,” he paused. “I’ll have to keep that in mind next time. ‘Note to self: almost get killed if you need somethin’ from Cowboy.’”

Racetrack sent a laugh sparking through Spot that almost made him forget how much pain he was in (almost). “Whatever works I guess.”

“I gotta get word to Brooklyn, let ‘em know what’s goin’ on,” Spot said, his eyes drooping, sleep starting to take over. “I don’t want ‘em gettin’ caught off guard.”

“I’ll take care of it, Spot,” Racetrack said, puffing on his cigar.

“Thanks, Racetrack…” he responded sleepily. “You’s a good friend… I trust ya.”

Racetrack stilled. Spot Conlon didn’t trust anyone.  _ He must be sicker than I thought, _ Racetrack reasoned, pulling the blankets up over Spot, though not able to deny how excited he was at the prospect.

_ Racetrack Higgins: the only person in the world who Spot Conlon trusts. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is kind of rough, but as I always say.... "um... eh whatever."

**Author's Note:**

> There will be semi-regular updates, when it concludes, I'll make sure to actually make sure to post the conclusion (I hate cliffhangers). Enjoy!
> 
> (not beta-read soooooo ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ )


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